The valley, winding, delicate, desolate,
Mountains loom as flag-waved towers.
Rivers of red, rocks hewn from bone
Line banks embossed with stainèd flowers.

Long reign the mighty Mountain towers!
Rage the wrath of Waterfall!
Crash and howl within the valley,
Lord and Master of us all!

Here rule the Mountains of our fathers,
And rush the Rivers of our blood:
Juxtaposing Man and Nature,
Where Man is clay, and dust, and mud.

The trees will whisper of the battle,
Reflected where the water's stilled
And thickened with the blood of thousands ,
Their cries imprinted 'pon the Hills.

'Deplore me!' Weeps the Waterfall.
'Despise us!' Wail the banks of mud.
'Decry us!' Boom the agèd Hills, 'For
We are tainted with your blood'.

In mourning for this war-like race
Battlefields with flowers red.
Each note of birdsong in the Forest
A Requiem for long-lost dead.

As lifetimes pass, so we surrender
Memories of them, lost in war,
To the dust, the sea, the graveyard,
To the tomb with stone-sealed door.

We may condemn such acts of evil
Of that barbaric race of men.
We close the door, and face the future,
Ne'er to see such times again.

The Hills will not forget so swiftly.
Nor will the Brooks that run with blood.
Our crimes forever all imprinted
In the bone, the clay, the mud.

But we can build upon the Forest;
Our filtered water will run pure.
By it all is cleansed, forgotten.
The Hills remember. They endure.